The Case of the Missing Link
by Dragonmaster Kurai
Summary: A serial killer in London, demanding Sherlock's attention. Mycroft spitting feathers over threats to National Security. And John's... alcoholic sister Harry? With kidnapping, rescue and secrets a plenty, things will never quite be the same for Sherlock, John, Lestrade and the rest of the gang. Dark in places. Reviews and feedback very welcome, I own nothing except the plot!
1. Part 1

_Present_

From the lovely, sweet darkness, voices called him forth. He strained to hear them, to make himself understand a few snatches. Something was wrong, why was his brain so quiet? Was he drunk? Drugged? Drugged. He knew he hadn't relapsed, that meant he wasn't in this state voluntarily. Sherlock couldn't help it, he groaned, trying to make sense of anything.

"...Er kommt zu sich!" This voice, male, sounded sharp, with a hint of frantic undertone from somewhere above his head. He was laying down he realised, the concrete floor was cold and hard under his cheek. German, his brain supplied him with helpfully from where it lay buried in cotton wool. How odd. Not a language he'd expected.

"...Schnell, wir müssen ihn wieder unter Leute bringen..." This voice was different, it was cool, collected and female, coming closer to him. His vision was barely there, he felt the shift in air, heard her heavy footfall. They... Needed to get him back amongst people? What? His mind had done enough to help and was frustratingly quiet.

"... Schlafen Sie wieder ein Herr Holmes, einfach nur einschlafen..." Sherlock blinked his eyes open one last time. Orders to go to sleep he could follow. Her blurred and veiled face was above his, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Unable to focus on any more details, that was the last he knew.

Hours later, he was woken by a resounding slap to the face.

"Schnell! Aufstehen - Wir müssen raus hier, bevor sie uns finden - " The woman's voice was scared, panicky. Get up - get out, Sherlock's brain roughly translated for him. His body refused to obey, it had been through enough and all he could do was given another weak groan. The panic in her voice roused him but not enough.

"Scheiße," she hissed and pulled him up, despite efforts his weak cries of protest. They began a long, awkward and very painful walk, the woman hurrying him along as fast as she could, their footsteps echoing around them. Warehouse, how boring, Sherlock thought before a blow to the head dropped him back to the floor. The last thing he heard was the woman's angry, rapid German.

oOoOoOo

_Two weeks ago_

221B Baker Street was playing host to a rather tense atmosphere on an otherwise sunny afternoon. Mycroft was stood by the fireplace and drummed his fingers on the skull, his patience clearly being pushed to its limits, Sherlock knowing exactly how to push. John was sat, his head swinging back and forth, watching the brothers try and best each other with a mildly amused smile gracing his features.

"Honestly Sherlock, it's like the words 'National Security' mean nothing to you," Mycroft said, trying to keep a lid on his exasperation. He wasn't doing very well, hand repeatedly clenching on the handle of his umbrella. "I'm trying to offer you a case, even John seems interested - no offence - and managing to grasp it, but you? You're being petulant."

Sherlock simply played a rather jarring array of notes on his violin, but was disrupted in his attempts to permanently damage his brother's ears by clumsy footsteps hurrying, no, stumbling noisily up the stairs. A woman on the shady side of thirty lurched into the flat, giggling as she tripped over her feet and nearly banging her head on the doorframe.

"Hey John - wha's with the men in black routine?" She was accompanied by the strong aroma of excessive alcohol consumption.

"Harry?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Oh - the famous sister?"

Something in his tone attracted the woman's attention. Before John could react, Harry turned and stumbled into the government official, hands outstretched to steady herself.

"John, if you would be so kind as to remove your sister from my person," Mycroft said, turning his nose at the smell, and ignoring Harry's slurred "Shrrrrlock?" as he picked her hands off his chest.

"You must be flattered Mycroft, being mistaken for being someone quite so much younger," Sherlock said, following the action through narrowed eyes. "Can't happen often - though alcohol does turn even a sow's ear into a silk purse."

"Mycroft I'm so sorry, she's supposed to be in rehab," John said, getting up and heading to Mycroft's rescue, pausing only to glare at Sherlock.

"You're funny," Harry giggled, patting Mycroft clumsily, nearly resting her chin on his shoulder as she wobbled.

"Most certainly not. Good day gentlemen - Miss Watson," Mycroft said, attempting to regain some dignity. He was surprisingly light on his feet, sidestepping Harry with a well timed push to her shoulder and walking out, ignoring his younger brother's snickers. Sherlock's appreciation for the woman he'd never met was growing, simply because she made Mycroft uncomfortable.

John on the other hand, had caught his sister who unexpectedly turned and snuggled into him as he sat her on the sofa. Harry was well built, muscly and far taller than him, his big sister in every sense of the word. She also looked incredibly vulnerable, arms wrapped around herself. John used the moment to study her more closely. She was surprisingly well groomed, he noted, detecting a hint of perfume under the whiskey.

"I don't feel so good," she groaned, pale and sweaty, turning steadily more ashen and John, recognising the signs, grabbed the nearest thing, a bowl of fruit, scattering its contents across the floor. The moment seemed to pass and John let out a shakey breath, unfortunately, just in time for Harry to release a stream of vomit. A dab hand at aiming, John avoided getting covered, and only a few splashes glooped back into Harry's now also snotty face.

"Sherlock, get me a bucket, loo roll and a glass of water," he snapped at his friend who was seemingly oblivious to the dilemma, whilst juggling his sister and the bowl. "Sherlock!"

The combination of sharp tone and the acrid smell of vomit spurned Sherlock into action, dragging him back from the window where he'd been watching Mycroft leave. The bowl was set aside in favour of a bucket. John wiped his sisters face and transferred her wordlessly into the arms of his ex-flatmate who glowered at him.

"Only for a minute," John said hastily. He frowned as he looked at the contents of the bowl and quickly analysed them. It looked like Harry hadn't eaten much bar some sushi and had gone straight to a mix of drinks. "I thought you'd given up."

"I have." Harry was nodding vigorously from Sherlock's arms.

"Clearly," Sherlock commented.

Harry flailed a dismissive hand, barely missing Sherlock's nose by a fraction. He bristled and shoved her off him at arms length and she tumbled off the sofa, landing with a soft 'oof'.

"Sherlock really?" John groaned. "Come on, it'll take both of us to lift her."

Together they pulled the woman back up onto the sofa. Sherlock eyed her closely, his face making strange twitches as he used visible effort to prevent himself from talking.

"Oh Harry, what am I to do with you?" John asked sadly, brushing her hair with his hand. "Who'd you put your glad rags on for anyway, not like you to dressup?"

"She is clearly trying to hold down some sort of city job, finance I'd say, going by the expensive whiskey on her blouse - her fingers are manicured but longer on the left hand suggesting she is right handed and uses her dominant hand to access smart screens, again, likely in a city job." Sherlock, it seemed, would not be contained for long and carried on regardless, despite Harry's growing discomfort and John, who was trying to pacify her's glares. "The fact she has relapsed again and keeps going to a private clinic, also suggests substantial financial assets that are gained in a high stress environment. The smell of tobacco lingering on her fingers means she's tried to control it with smoking but has fallen off the wagon -"

"Sherlock shut up! - Harry I'm going to let you sober up a bit, I'm just going to give Mary a ring then you can stay with us tonight, she can come pick us up -" John said in what was meant to be a reassuring tone.

"'m fine - gotta go -" Harry groaned, blushing bright red with embarrassment at her predicament. Sherlock made a noise of protest at the 'sober up here' concept.

At this announcement John began to voice his opposition as his sister lurched upwards, pulling herself up by the arm of the sofa.

"Nice place you've got Sh'lock," Harry slurred with another wave of the hand and then pitched forwards, long legs carrying her out of the door with remarkable speed. Sherlock looked unconcerned and picked up his violin again but John, still frozen in place with the bucket of vomit shook himself.

"Harry wait," he called as he heard her thunder down the stairs. "Sherlock -"

"Hmmm?" The latter replied.

"Help she's - she's my sister she needs help, we should -" John began disjointedly as the front door slammed.

"Clearly," Sherlock said as John put the bucket down with aam exasperated growl.

"Well help - oh for gods sake," John said and stormed out of the room after her, pausing only to grab a jacket. The door banged a second time and Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow, playing some chords.

It wasn't long before John returned, defeated, frustration coming off him in waves.

"Shes gone," he said, face pale despite the exertion.

"Evidently, alcohol's call waits for no man or woman," Sherlock replied curtly. "Now will you get rid of that?" He asked, pointing at the bucket of vomit still innocently sitting where the doctor had deposited it.

"Sherlock, she's my sister!" John said, his voice raised.

"As you've said repeatedly, I fail to see why I have to put up with the stench of her vomit in my flat, she is not you," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Sherlock, she's drunk and she's vanished. She could be hurt or have alcohol poisoning -"

" - unlikely to be acute as she's a chronic alcoholic -"

"That's not the point! - I'll call her - maybe Lestrade can - do you think Mycroft can -" John's tone was unsure, like he was hesitant to even ask the smallest of favours.

"She's managed her condition for years John, she's unlikely to seek or even need help now," Sherlock said and then his brow furrowed.

"What?" John asked, pausing mid pace. "I know that look. What does that look mean? It means something!"

"What was she doing here?" Sherlock asked.

"Probably wanted to come somewhere safe until you pushed her onto the floor and analysed her to death. She's not even a banker, she's a bloody nurse," John snapped and instantly regretted it, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry, I -"

"Don't be sentimental. You are given to react viscerally when under stress, it's quite normal for you," Sherlock said, his face not quite cleared of its puzzled look.

John sighed.

"I know, but it's not nic- never mind. I'm going to go look for her."

When he called Sherlock hours later it was dark. There was no sign of his sister.

oOoOoOo

_Present_

The world was filled with pain. The drugs in his system confused Sherlock, he didn't know up or down. All he knew was that someone had begun hitting him. Then a weight settled on him and the pain stopped. He was cradled against a woman's chest, being gripped tightly.

The woman emitted low cries of pain, the blows now reigning down upon her back. At least Sherlock was given a reprieve, she told herself. Her plan had failed, this was the best she could now do. Ride out the storm, she thought. She screamed as they tried to separate them, but in the end all they did was laugh and dish out the punishment to whichever parts of them they could reach. She heard one of her ribs go, could see the bruises beginning to form on Sherlock.

When their captors got bored, they left them laid on the warehouse floor with only two guards. The woman pulled her gun, silencer already on, carefully out from under her hoodie. Amateurs, she thought to herself as she swiftly dispatched the two guards, one dying before he realised anything was wrong, the other with a look of surprise etched permanently on his face. She gave another groan of pain as she pulled Sherlock up and they began staggering out.

oOoOoOo

_Earlier that day_

"You're sure?" Sherlock asked the woman, a member of his homeless network as he read the scrap of paper.

"Yes guv. Three bin murdered in the last week." She sidled away as Sherlock turned and was already moving back towards John.

"And? What did she say? Any sign of Harry?" John asked.

"Harry? Who's Ha- oh your sister. No, no sign - but something very peculiar," Sherlock said, looking at the note again.

"Did you even ask?" John asked heatedly.

"Yes of course I did -"

"It's just you couldn't remember who she was just now," John ground out.

"Sister, alcoholic, goes off grid regularly, no one has seen her. John she obviously doesn't want to be found - it wasn't so long ago you were shot of her," Sherlock said sounding bored. "Now we have something much more interesting - a criminal conspiracy. Someone's killing the members of my homeless network, I need to speak to Molly, get them transferred to Barts."

John swallowed his anger and nodded. Sherlock was right - people were dying and really, Harry had done this before - all of his adult life in fact. Still, despite the falling out earlier in the year, John couldn't help but worry about his troubled sister.

"Any theories so far?" He asked the consulting detective.

"Several. I need more data to narrow them down," Sherlock replied, hailing a cab. "Have you got any cash?"

"I really need to start invoicing you for expenses," John muttered as he climbed in behind Sherlock, tone somewhere between resigned and reluctantly amused.

oOoOoOo

"They were expertly killed," Molly said as they stood around the corpses. "The other pathologist ruled them suicides but I checked further."

"Clever," Sherlock muttered, peering at the track marks on one man's arm through his magnifying glass. "Pulmonary embolism by injecting air straight into the vein?"

"Exactly," Molly said, nodding. "The track marks -"

" - all match except for this one. How unusual. Excellent," Sherlock said, making Molly, who had been nodding falter slightly with his last word.

"How is this excellent Sherlock?" John asked.

"Because it means the killer has medical training," Molly supplied before Sherlock could answer. "Only and experienced nurse or doctor could inject that precisely, it's a forensic counter measure."

"Couldn't another junkie do that?" John asked.

"Hardly likely," Sherlock snorted. "We can find veins but it's not usually this neat. Also, there would be very little point, it's not really in keeping with an MO around robbery gone bad, which is the usual reason addicts kill." John found he had to concede that point.

"So, doctor or nurse - well, that narrows it down to most of the NHS," he said with a sigh. "Angel of mercy killer?"

"Possible, but they tend to operate more in a ward setting to be sure they can be part of the first response or to call it - no, this is interesting. I think someone might be trying to get my attention," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands in barely contained glee.

"Sherlock, people, dead," John chided once again.

"Again, a sound analysis John," Sherlock said, missing the point completely. Molly and John exchanged exasperated smirks and shook their respective heads.

Once outside, John shoved his hands into his coat pockets and watched his breath crystallise as he exhaled.

"Has this got anything with the business Mycroft was telling us about before Harry - you know, barged in?" he asked.

"I doubt it, not really a terrorist style," Sherlock said. "This is personal."

"Personal - to you or the tramps?" John asked after a second.

"Personal to me. Like I said, I think someone wants my attention. Question is why. Oh I do so love it when they are glory seekers," Sherlock said gleefully as he headed out.

"Just try and remember the dead," John sighed to himself, shaking his head. He headed off after Sherlock.

oOoOoOo

The operative half carried half dragged Sherlock along with her. She was strong but this clearly wasn't in her regular job description. They splashed through gravel laden puddles in a back alley, Sherlock growing weaker by the second, barely conscious. The operative's breath was getting laboured, she emitted little strained noises, but still, her determination was etched into her movements. When the floodlights came on between the buildings, headlights from cars in their path she froze, clutching Sherlock tightly to her. The gun in her hand, on the arm around his waist, tightened ready to aim but then she sagged with relief as she heard a cry of 'Sherlock'. These were friends. Despite the laser targets aimed at her head and chest she relaxed and dropped the gun. A few dots lessened and then John Watson was before them, glaring at her before casting worried eyes over Sherlock.

"What did you give him? What did you do to him?" John hissed at her. She transferred Sherlock wordlessly into the doctors arms and stepped back, hands raised, getting slowly to her knees.

Lestrade moved forward, and had one of her wrists already cuffed when a fifth person joined them hurriedly, heading straight for her.

Mycroft.

"Stop! Stop at once, do not arrest her. She is free to go, here are your orders, don't touch her," he shouted as he rushed forwards. Lestrade was barely able to voice his surprise, and John looked up shocked for a moment. In that hesitation, Mycroft took the operative's wrist and dragged her up, pulling her tightly to him, one hand cradling her head against his chest so her face remained hidden. The scarf keeping her identity masked had begun to come loose.

"What the -?" Lestrade began, shocked at the display by the elder Holmes. John meanwhile jumped up as the paramedics put oxygen on the unconscious Sherlock. He was torn between wanting to help his friend and wanting to know what had happened to Sherlock.

"What did you give him?!" He snarled at the woman, grabbing her shoulder. She ignored him and simply wound herself tighter into Mycroft, gripping the back of his suit, locked in what would otherwise been a tight, loving embrace, hiding against him. Mycroft's arms also tightened and he stared at John, his cold eyes turning to ice. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice and John quickly realised he'd never actually experienced the wrath of the most powerful man in Britain before.

"Get your hands off her at once. This woman is one of mine," Mycroft said with deliberate, cold slowness. Lestrade swallowed and automatically took a step back. "Rest assured," Mycroft continued, "that she had nothing to do with my brother's abduction and -" there was a barely perceptible nod from the head on his chest, " - and maltreatment. She got him out at great personal expense and keeping her identity secret is paramount. So get your hands off her!" Mycroft hissed. "Before I have you arrested for threatening National Security."

John stepped back like he'd been stung, hands wide in surrender. Mycroft continued to give his unyielding glare when the woman sagged against him and he struggled with the sudden weight.

"Agent?" he asked sharply, and John was at once concerned, the doctor in him overriding all else. "I said don't touch!"

"But I'm a doctor," John protested, his need to help overriding his anger for the moment.

"And you can't know her identity," Mycroft retorted, patting her face gently with one hand. "Agent!"

"She might be seriously hurt -"

"National Security," Mycroft droned, shaking her. She began to come around.

"You'd rather she die than me know here identity?" John asked, astounded.

"Yes." Mycroft's response was cold and unapologetic.

"Well, I'll never again accuse Sherlock of being heartless," John said, turning to look at Lestrade, sharing a look of disgust with the detective. Consequently, they missed the look of something that flitted over Mycroft's face, and the brief squeeze the woman gave his arm. They did not however miss Mycroft standing back from her slightly and securing her scarf firmly in place with a tenderness that was so out of character, John later wondered wether or not he had imagined the whole thing in a dream sequence.

"Take care of my brother, I'm having him sent to a private facility - I assume you are going with him John," Mycroft said, voice now softer, drawing the woman back to him and under one arm, helping her stay on her feet.

"Yes - will we be seeing you?" John asked, feeling he already knew the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

"I think not - I have other matters to attend to - text me any developments," Mycroft said as Sherlock was wheeled to the waiting ambulance, now all patched up for the ride. Mycroft led the woman away, trying to shield her as much as possible from here surroundings. Anthea and a few of his suits cleared a channel to a waiting car for them as they walked very carefully.

"What on earth was that all about?" Lestrade pondered.

"Dunno, but whoever she is, she's important - I've never seen him so -" John began as they headed towards the ambulance containing Sherlock.

"Caring? Worried? Scared?" Lestrade supplied.

"Human," John said as he climbed in the vehicle. "See you at the hospital."

"Later mate," Lestrade said, shutting the doors and staring at the black car that was pulling away. He shook his head. There was a crime scene to process.

oOoOoOo

AN: sorry to disappoint, that the update isn't a new chapter but I really wasn't happy with the way the old chapter had gone. So I took some advice and have rewritten it, I'm now much more pleased with it. Part two has also been edited again but the change isn't so great. Part three will be done soon :) thank you, please review, I welcome any comments or criticisms :)


	2. Part 2

AN: Yes, this chapter too has been redone, I'm much happier with it now, though the changes are less drastic than in part one :) please as ever, review :)

oOoOoOo

The hospital was noisy but Sherlock had been wheeled straight into a private room, away from prying eyes. Mycroft's people had the place surrounded, turning it into a mini fortress to keep the younger Holmes safe. It had all been done in an extraordinarily efficient manner.

"How did I get here?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, brittle, like cut glass as he opened his eyes and surveilled his surroundings.

"Hey - What's the last thing you remember?" John asked, moving to his side and raising a glass of water to his lips. Once he had drank his fill, Sherlock leaned back again.

"German. I remember German. And pain," he said. "There was a woman -"

"Did she hurt you?" John asked.

"Injected - drugs - but -" the memories were all so blurry. "She's hurt?"

"Mycroft wouldn't let me near her," John said calmly. "But I'm asking if she hurt you as well as drug you."

"No. She protected me," Sherlock said and coughed feebly, wincing as he did so. "They beat her."

"She carried you out of there it seems," John said. "But you rest up now - Mycroft has her and is taking care of her." He hoped anyway.

The soft snore of natural sleep, answered him.

oOoOoOo

The moment they got in the car and the door shut behind her, the woman pulled the scarf off her tear stained face. One eye was swelling shut, her lip was split.

"What the bloody hell took you so long Mycroft Holmes?! They were beating up your brother," she said angrily. "We're lucky they accepted me back into their ranks - I could have really used some backup -" And a helicopter gunship or something.

"What went wrong?" Mycroft retorted as he activated and handed her an ice pack.

"How the fffff- devil should I know?" The woman put the ice pack gingerly to her eye. "We were fine the one minute, I checked the deep cover, they had accepted my presence - I was careful when I went to get him - maybe they found an inconsistency in my cover story -" she trailed off into silence. They both knew that was unlikely to be the case, she was far too good at her job for that. "I don't know," she said and sounded most upset.

"Well you're both safe now, that's what matters," Mycroft sighed, relenting and sitting back before eyeing her closely again. "Now, where else are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she began but Mycroft quelled her protests with a look. "I'm a nurse, I can take care of it," she said lamely.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it - shirt, off," Mycroft said with a look that clearly said he wouldn't take no for an answer.

The woman huffed but as a measure of how familiar they were to one another, she didn't bat an eyelid at stripping in the back of the moving vehicle, or at least trying to.

"It's no good, you're going to have to help me," she said after a brief struggle.

Wordlessly Mycroft obeyed, her inability to move increasing his worry exponentially. He let out a low hiss as he saw the bruises forming on her stomach and kidneys.

"That is not nothing - you've probably broken ribs as well," he informed her. It was then that Anthea's voice drifted back from the front seats.

"I've given orders to go to your residence and for the medical team to meet you there sir, ma'am," she said, going straight back to her phone.

The woman rolled her eyes.

"And you're sure I can't pinch her for my section?" she asked, sounding mildly peeved.

"I'm sure. I will sign off on pretty much any request my dear, except for that one," Mycroft said with an amused look. He pulled a large hooded sweatshirt out of a nondescript bag and carefully helped the woman into it. "Can't have you getting cold or be seen getting out of my car half naked now can we?" He asked. "People will talk."

"People do little else," the woman quipped. Exhausted, she leaned her head on Mycroft's shoulder and was asleep in minutes. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Anthea who watched them in her vanity mirror.

"Not one word," Mycroft grumbled quietly and Anthea's eyes crinkled with a grin.

oOoOoOo

Sherlock lay, listening to the machines that were monitoring his vitals. He'd listened to John's account of the situation and was trying to puzzle together the meaning of his brother's actions. It was unheard of for Mycroft to seek physical contact with anyone, he, like Sherlock, avoided it like the plague usually. There must be something very special about this woman, Sherlock thought. Was she a top agent? She hadn't been fit enough. Her German language skills were impressive, he had even detected a slight regional lilt. And why has she taken the punishment meant meant for him? It didn't make sense.

Then the syringe driver activated and pumped more morphine into Sherlock's system and he was asleep once more.

oOoOoOo

"... and a fractured transverse process at T5," the doctor finished summing up for Mycroft, who was stood leaning on his umbrella.

"See, I told you it was nothing," the woman wheezed from the bed she was laid in, hooked up to IVs. "It's a stable fracture after all."

"Yes and your cracked ribs and bruised kidneys are nothing either are they?" Mycroft asked.

Recognising the tone, the woman quietened down immediately. She knew she could push her boss further than most, but she also knew that rare privilege had its limits. This was one of those times.

"Treatment plan doctor?" Mycroft asked, turning back to the other man.

"Rest. The body will heal it's self but it will take time," the physician replied. "Gentle exercise like going for short walks is permissible. She's not cleared for active assignments for six months minimum."

"Well it's a good thing I'm mostly a desk jockey these days," she groaned.

"And a minimum of four weeks until you can return to that," the doctor said, not bothering to hide his grin at the resulting groan. "And then only if I sign you fit."

"Can I kill him?" She groused and sulked, only to be silenced by a painful coughing fit.

"Talking won't help that," the doctor said clinically as he held a bottle of water to her lips.

The woman gave him a half hearted glare, finished drinking and then sank back into the pillows, exhausted. Her eyes closed of their own volition and she slept.

Mycroft dismissed the doctor and sat with her for a long time, well into darkness, his fingers steepled in deep thought.

oOoOoOo

Three weeks later saw a very bored Sherlock throwing darts at a picture of the doctor who had been so firm about the resting he was ordered to do. John was part of the perceived conspiracy, and he and Mary were away in Cornwall for the weekend, a romantic getaway to St. Ives. Sherlock grimaced at the thought, romance, how ghastly. Lestrade was also obviously listening to whatever Mycroft had threatened him with and was refusing to give him anything to do.

"Bored!" he yelled, though there was no one there to hear him, or so he thought.

"Really Sherlock, throwing darts? You know mummy would be so disappointed after that incident with Mrs. Evans' picture," Mycroft said from the door.

"She had it coming. What the blazes are you doing here Mycroft, you've not needed to visit in all this time, keep it that way, why start now?" Sherlock snapped.

"Dear brother I have ever been caught up in dealing with this - mess," Mycroft said. "I was reliably informed things were all in hand here."

"I knew it! Patient confidentiality doesn't matter when you're around does it?"

"It certainly does. I got John to text me," Mycroft said, sounding rather smug.

Sherlock made a noise of outrage and went to turn dramatically over if the sofa. This would have worked better if he hadn't made a noise of pain and frozen mid way. Mycroft gave him a concerned look, stepping over to him but then thinking better of it.

"Since when do you care?" Sherlock asked nastily.

"More than you know little brother," Mycroft said, going to the freezer and getting out a bag of frozen peas. He proceeded to apply them to Sherlock's ribs. "Fight me on what you want Sherlock but this will help with the pain."

"And how would you know? Not like you've ever been on the receiving end," Sherlock said angrily.

The hand holding his umbrella tightened involuntarily but Mycroft inclined his head.

"You're right of course. It's simply something I was told," he said and stepped back.

Sherlock took a moment to observe his brother. The bags under his eyes were prominent, he was unusually pale, tiredness seemed to envelop him like a shroud. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock.

"What mess? And who was that woman?" he asked.

"What woman?" Mycroft asked airily.

"Don't play dumb with me Mycroft, the woman who got me out. John said it was a woman." Sherlock arched an eyebrow at his brother.

"Oh her," Mycroft said dismissively. "Just an operative, no need to concern yourself with her. She's not important."

"You say that, but the grip on your umbrella handle tells me otherwise," Sherlock said.

"Would you recognise her again?" Mycroft asked.

"No - all I know is she spoke German. The rest - I was drugged, I don't recall much," Sherlock said honestly.

"You're sure?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes of course I'm sure. Besides, if she's just an operative, it's not like it matters is it? I'm hardly likely to run into her again," Sherlock said.

"True," Mycroft conceded and looked decidedly relieved. "Most certainly true."

"What is she to you? A lover?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft gave a snort.

"Hardly, you've been spending too much time with the Watsons, their predilection for romance seems to be rubbing off on you," he said with a hint of disgust colouring his voice. "She is simply an agent, nothing more."

"You hugged her." The way Sherlock said it made it sound like an offence punishable by death.

"Only because her identity must remain secret - and no I am not telling you why, you don't have the necessary clearance," Mycroft said waspishly.

"Mmm. If you say so," said Sherlock with a smirk so irritating it made Mycroft want to commit an act of violence. He glowered at his brother and left without another word.

oOoOoOo

_Two months later:_

"Well I'd best be off," Mary said, picking up the baby and smiling at Sherlock before giving her husband a quick peck on the cheek. "You boys behave," she added with a wink and both men managed to look far too innocent for their own good. Mary laughed and left them to it.

"So, nothing further then?" John asked, indicating the case files of the murdered homeless.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, voice sour. "Mycroft's people sanitised my notes and since my - ahem - capture, the only lead I have is the possibility that they are a gang of German nationals, but that is at best flimsy."

"Lestrade couldn't help you out?" John asked and Sherlock gave a dismissive laugh.

"Lestrade, help? The man can't find his own backside with both hands, what makes you think he'd be any better with this?" Sherlock shook his head at the thought. Then he cocked his head to one side. "How odd. Mycroft is here."

Sure enough, the front door was unlocked and Mycroft's distinct footfall could be heard coming up the stairs.

"Ah, John, how delightful to see you," the politician said and John inclined his head with a smile that was at least half friendly.

Sherlock ignored his brother completely.

"How is married life treating you?" Mycroft asked and both John and Sherlock reacted with surprise.

"Really Mycroft, doing domestic now are we?" Sherlock asked and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"I am merely being polite brother, something you have so far failed to cultivate even the slightest notion of," Mycroft retorted.

"Ladies please," John said and they both flushed slightly. "Married life and fatherhood are one blissfully brimming dirty nappy of joy."

Neither Holmes was quite sure if that was a good thing or not and they risked sharing a puzzled look with each other.

John couldn't help but grin.

"So what brings you here Mycroft, as much as I love to chat with you," he asked, deciding to cut the older man some slack.

"I've come to ask Sherlock to stop looking for those who imprisoned him - we are closing the net around them as we speak," Mycroft said. "Perhaps you can make him see reason on this matter John -"

Before he got much further, there was a rather loud bang as the front door once again slammed open and the heavy footfalls of someone running up the stairs, taking them two at a time, were heard. The door off the landing burst open and the woman stood in the livingroom, her dark jeans and and hoodie in perfect contrast to the sharp figure cut by Mycroft.

"Augsburg Protocol is active, we need to get you out of here now sir," she said, looking intently at her boss. The silence that followed was almost deafening.

"Harry?" John finally wheezed and then promptly hit the deck.

"Well shit," Harry muttered. "Don't just stand the you two, Mr. Holmes, get water, Sherlock, raise his legs -" Nothing happened. "Have I sprouted wings or something, I said move, now MOVE." Mycroft at least sprang into action, heading into the kitchen to procure water.

"And put the kettle on, dissolve some sugar in some hot water, then add cold on top, we haven't got time for him to be fainting - Sherlock you must have several questions, but let's deal with those when we get to safety, Mr. Holmes, Anthea is arranging for Mrs Hudson and your parents to be picked up and taken to a safe house -" Harry was clearly used to getting through a large volume of data at once, not to mention being obeyed without hesitation, and the fact that his brother didn't question her words but simply nod, meant Sherlock, whose world had briefly been turned upside down, followed his brother's lead. He raised John's legs rather meekly as Mycroft returned with the first of the glasses of water.

"Thanks -" Harry took it and crouched awkwardly beside her brother, taking his pulse. She then threw the cold water over him, causing John to come to with a yell. "How are you feeling?" Harry asked.

"Harry?" John's voice held an interesting high pitch, his eyes darting around, clearly having trouble taking in what he was seeing.

"Okay, denial, that's fine," Harry said and held her free hand out towards Mycroft who gave the sugar water to her. "Here, drink this, questions later when we are safe."

In the end, she had to feed it to him sip by sip, evidently John's brain had decided to cease using its cognitive functions for the time being.

"Sherlock I need you to take John, Mr. Holmes you're with me," Harry said, "no ifs or buts. I can only protect one of you and that has to be the boss."

"Protect -" John swayed dangerously again and Sherlock grabbed hold of him quickly.

"Government over your own brother?" Sherlock asked.

"Queen and Country Sherlock," Harry replied. "And in this case your brother is the country. Let's go." Checking to make sure that Sherlock was following with John, she pulled a scarf up around her face again, obscuring her features, drawing her sidearm. Mycroft gripped his umbrella tightly as he followed her, sticking to her like glue, used to being under close protection. Sherlock noted that the heavy set woman moved in a surprisingly light footed manner as he took care to navigate John rather more clumsily down the stairs. Harry went, gun first, around every corner, checking it was clear before motioning for them to follow her. Sherlock dragged John whose legs kept giving way. Somewhat miraculously, they reached the car and the waiting Anthea without incident. Once inside, Harry withdrew a black hood from a box under the seat.

"Put this on please John," she said.

"Status?" Mycroft asked.

"Secure, no detected treats in the immediate environment," Anthea reported as Harry passed the hood to her brother who hesitated.

"Why?"

"John, if you wouldn't mind, the idea behind a secret hideout is that it stays secret," Harry said, not unkindly. "Or rather in this case, the point where we rendezvous with our further transport. I know there's no point in blindfolding Sherlock, he knows the roads as well as his brother does and we are relying on your discretion. - And it's not that I can't trust you John, but what you don't know can't be tortured out of you. The rest of us are trained in interrogation resistance techniques."

John was staring at his sister and just nodded.

"Mary?" He asked dumbly.

"Is being picked up as we speak. You will meet with her at the rendezvous," Harry reassured him.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had been staring at Harry intently.

"You got me out," he said at length, after he helped John into his hood.

"You were never supposed to find out," Harry said quietly. "But - I had to give Mr. Holmes that message in person, electronics are too fallible, given what we are dealing with."

"And what is that?"

"Something very dangerous. That is all I have to say on the matter." Harry's tone was final.

"You're not an alcoholic?" Sherlock asked instead.

"Not since I was sixteen," Harry replied and John let out a long, pained groan.

"I thought you were a drunk - I'm so sorry -" he began.

"You were supposed to. I've invested a lot in that persona - she's the perfect cover," Harry said.

"Why - WHY does EVERYONE in my life have a deep dark secret," John groused. "Really everyone - and you missed my wedding!"

"Of course I did. Mary would have recognised me for what I am, it's why I've not met Sherlock before now, except the time you thought I was drunk," Harry said. "We know our own kind."

"So, what are you then, an assassin, what?" Sherlock asked.

"What I am is not important. All you need to know is that I am in charge of keeping you safe from some very - unsavoury characters," Harry said, cutting across him. "And I really do need you to not continue looking into these deaths - and I need your mobile phones. I don't want you being tracked through them."

John complied wordlessly, any fight knocked out of him and Sherlock glowered for a moment before relenting.

"Lestrade has been apprehended, sir, ma'am," Anthea said, her voice wafting back. Harry nodded with grim satisfaction as Mycroft said 'excellent'.

"Confirm that's the last of them apprehended?" Harry asked.

"Yes ma'am, confirmed. They are all being brought to Point Victor, then out with you to the safe zone."

"Good. Well done, and that job offer is still open," Harry said and Anthea smirked as Mycroft glared. "I know, I know, but it's not like you can blame me for trying is it?"

The car purred along out of London, and away from CCTV and technological trappings, towards a place of greater safety.


End file.
